


Cut These Knotted Ties

by aerClassic



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: (taking my time with this one feel free to ignore until it's complete), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragon Age Lore, Hongjoong vs. Cabbage is a running gag, M/M, Magic works a little differently than the source material, Rating will change, Romance Takes the Scenic Route
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23111731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerClassic/pseuds/aerClassic
Summary: "Enchanters!The time has come to be alive with the Circle of Magi!"The adventure of a lifetime is much better shared with friends.........But not cabbage.Nevercabbage.
Relationships: Jeong Yunho/Kim Hongjoong
Comments: 42
Kudos: 99





	1. Prologue

“Well, that could have gone a lot better,” the templar says mildly from his position flanking Hongjoong on his left on this very small, very _narrow_ strip of cliff face overlooking the village. “Did you try to burn the cabbage field in the shape of a bunny?”

Hongjoong scuffs the edge of his boot against a nearby outcropping of rock. “I mean... _tried_ being the operative word here, yes.”

The templar whistles. “You were doing okay up until the ears, I think.”

“Thanks,” Hongjoong says. His skin still tingles faintly from the afterburn of magic bubbling up beneath his nails and he flexes his hands to get rid of some of the frenetic energy. The leather on his right sleeve is a little crispy from the heat, damn. He’ll have to replace it in the next town, which means scrounging around for coin he doesn’t have by pickpocketing it from someone who does. “Are you here to drag me back to the Circle? Because I should probably warn you it’s not going to go very well. For you. Specifically.”

The templar is observing the smoldering field of what had been a thriving cabbage farm on the outskirts of a shit village filled with shit people and even shittier beer. Hongjoong had wasted six years of his life on this place that was supposed to be less than a waystation on his way to Tevinter to join the Imperium, where he’d been told by a reliable source they at least treated mages like humans instead of cattle to be herded. He’d arrived in Yellow Creek, a piss poor village aptly named for the vivid sulfuric tint of the stream that ran through town, found himself hopelessly adrift as whispers of the Imperium's downfall made the rounds, and decided to settle down as a healer in an abandoned cottage just outside of town. Every village needed a healer, he reasoned at the time, even if all Hongjoong really did was tell people to wash their hands for more than twenty seconds at a time and for the love of the Maker to stop eating the rats covered in pustules for dinner. 

The templar sniffs at the fumes drifting up to their position. “You’re acting like I don’t wrangle mages for a living. I could probably take you.”

“Probably is not _certainly_ , though.” Hongjoong readies himself for a fight even though he’s fairly spent, having burned down an entire field in more or less the shape of a rabbit and all. The huge broadsword strapped to the templar's waist catches the light with a menacing glare. “Best not to chance it.”

Hongjoong really hadn’t anticipated anyone being able to climb to his carefully picked position on the cliff several feet above this part of the village’s farmland. It was half a day’s journey up the side of mostly sheer rock and crossed two patches of fallen trees stacked on one another like a barrier, Hongjoong would know considering he made them as a deterrent to being followed. How this man followed him all the way out here without catching his attention puts his teeth on edge. A templar who could disguise the clink and clang of armor in a wood as thick as the one behind them is _dangerous_.

“So what exactly did the cabbage do to you to warrant such rage?” The templar straightens himself with his hands on his hips. Hongjoong wishes he could see the man’s expression beneath the heavy face concealing helmet because he seems _young_. Maybe he’s the type of young and inexperienced that can be easily beguiled into letting tiny mages go for such a tiny infarction as setting the food supply on fire. “And why a _rabbit_?”

Hongjoong inches his way around the templar’s frame. “Why _not_ a rabbit?”

The templar makes no move to stop his progress. “Is it because they eat cabbage?”

“What?”

“The rabbits, I mean.”

“Oh.” Three more paces forward and there’s a good chance he could make a break for it. “No, I just--rabbits are about the extent of what I can draw.”

“Hm,” the templar says, then, “Wait.”

Hongjoong freezes. The cooldown between using fire and any of the other magics he can usually call upon is brief compared to his peers, though long enough that he can’t piss off the man standing before him this soon, especially when he doesn’t even have the focus of a staff to help keep his mana usage in check. Using his hands to direct the fire made it easier to control, easier to finesse into shape, but without the focal point of a staff to keep his magic encapsulated most of his reserves fly away from him and Hongjoong uses up too much mental energy too quickly. 

Right now it means the broadsword can swing down and cleave him stem to stern before Hongjoong can even think to say _fireball_.

“Why burn down the cabbage field, though? That took all of last winter to prepare the soil and Farmer Joon had to petition Mother Yeseul for a month to get the extra hands to help till the ground.”

Deflating, Hongjoong sighs. “Okay. Look. Are you not sick of eating cabbage day in and day out? Because I _am_ and being given boiled cabbage soup as payment for a poultice for the sixth time in less than a week was the last straw.” He points at the village below, now filled with townspeople scrambling for water that can’t even begin to quench the flames. “I have _had it_ and I am getting out. This was my departing gift.”

“A flaming rabbit cabbage patch,” the templar muses.

“Yes,” Hongjoong seethes. Two and a half paces. The cliff sheers off to the right, though if he can manage to sidestep around Mr. Chantry Bootlicker in time he could maybe duck down to grab his staff resting against a rock and half-assed float his way down to safety. 

He doesn’t.

The templar removes his broadsword from the scabbard, burying the sharp tip into the ground and leans his weight on the pommel. “So.”

Hongjoong shifts another inch, another move toward freedom. “So. Shouldn’t you be down there helping the people? Isn’t that what the chantry teaches you guys when you’re indoctr--when you’re invited to the cloister?”

The templar says nothing. His armored fingers tap a rhythmless tune on the worn leather grip. “Where are you going from here?”

Hongjoong blinks. “You’re going to let me go?”

“Depends.” The templars rights himself and, with a flick of his wrist that seems effortless, lifts the heavy weapon until the tip is barely a hair's breadth away from cutting into the tip of Hongjoong’s nose. “Where are you going from here, mage? Your answer or your life.”

“That’s not very fair,” Hongjoong pouts as nervous sweat begins beading up along his hairline. “You’re supposed to accuse me of apostasy _first_ and then get all head chop off-y.”

The templar snorts in mirth and the sword jitters for a second before it’s once again held steady to Hongjoong’s face. “Okay, fine, I officially declare you an apostate and a criminal burner of cabbages. I do hereby demand your phylactery yadda-yadda off with your head and...whatever else you want me to say. That better?”

“It’d be better if there wasn’t a sword at my face,” Hongjoong says with a nervous flutter of his lashes.

“Cute,” the templar says, dry, and shifts his arm until the business end of his sword is directly over Hongjoong’s heart. “Not at your face anymore.” He shoves the pointed tip until it's denting at the leather of Hongjoong's vest. "Tell me where you're going. Now."

“Spoilsport,” Hongjoong mutters under his breath. His reserves are still a swirling mass of nothing. Empty. The first licking flame of heat is barely an ember when he tries to summon the element to his fingertips. “If it matters, I wasn’t really headed anywhere in particular. I just wanted to get _away_ so badly.”

The templar’s arm remains a solid line and Hongjoong is almost impressed at his control and the strength he possesses to be able to hold the position for so long. “What are you going to do about Kirkwall? They don't take kindly to free mages and you have to pass through the city if you want to get anywhere.”

 _Shit_. Hongjoong had forgotten. Behind them is dense forest, the only other villages as small and possibly more destitute than the one before, and if Hongjoong really wants to get away from this kind of life he’s going to have to pass through the ubiquitous City of Chains while hiding his nature. Hard to do when his staff is taller than he is with a great whacking crystal the size of his fist at the end.

“I can manage,” Hongjoong says defiantly with his shoulders squared.

“Uh huh,” the templar deadpans. “And when you’re offered cabbage soup at the first tavern and decide to burn the place down out of rage?”

Hongjoong feels his face redden in shame and anger. “Listen--”

“I’m coming with you,” the templar tells him and, bizarrely, sheaths his sword. “At least until Val Royeaux. I’ve always wanted to be a Chevalier, maybe I can work my way in once we’re there.

“Who said anything about _we_?” Hongjoong seethes and the ember of flame finally seems to catch, alights along his knuckles and boils in his blood. “I work _alone_.”

“Not if you’re going through Kirkwall.” The templar reaches up to unlatch the fastening beneath his chin ostensibly to remove his helmet. “Take it from me, unless you want to be thrown into the Maker bedamned _dungeon_ , you’re going to need a templar escort to bluff your way into the city.”

“I can bluff just fine. I don’t need you to--”

The statement dies from the tip of his tongue when the templar finally frees himself from his helmet to reveal a very handsome, if flushed from exertion, face. Hongjoong’s jaw clicks shut.

_Well._

“Allow me to go with you. Just until Val Royeaux and then you’ll never see me again.”

Hongjoong bites the inside of his cheek. “And the Chantry? The Revered Mother? Won’t you be excommunicated for leaving your station?”

The templar shrugs totally unconcerned. “Way I see it, I’m following the tracks of a dangerous apostate who burned down the village’s main source of food. If those tracks lead me to somewhere far away, then it is only so that I may keep the people safe from harm. They can’t really excommunicate me for only trying to do my job.”

“And you’re not going to try and kill me in my sleep?”

The templar forms a fist and touches the metal plating covering his chest. “Swear.”

Hongjoong chews the inside of his lip. “Fine. Only to Val Royeaux and then you pretend none of this ever happened.”

“Especially the terrible flaming bunny,” the templar adds cheekily.

Hongjoong rolls his eyes. “You got a name? Or am I just going to call you Chantry Boy for the remainder of this journey you’ve decided we’re going on? Because I can. And probably will.”

The templar grins brightly, a bit like an over excited mabari.

“My name is Yunho.”

“Well then, Yunho...” Hongjoong turns to face the trailing pathway leading down the cliff toward Kirkwall and potential freedom from an eternity of cabbage soup. “I guess we’d best be off then.”


	2. Oh, Deer

“So, what’s your beef with cabbage? Or well, I guess not _beef_ considering we haven’t had cattle in the village for two years now, but you’ve definitely got some kind of grudge against it.” 

Hongjoong regrets agreeing to let the templar follow him the entire trip to Val Royeaux nigh instantly. The half-day’s journey back down the side of the dusty rock-filled cliff is made worse by the clumsy length of his staff knocking against the back of his thighs and his shoulders, the awkward weight of his knapsack he kept hidden beneath a fallen log hidden with magic and a heavy scattering of crinkled leaves, and, oh yes, the incessant chatter of the man pulling up the rear.

Yunho’s armor clangs ominously as the templar jauntily hops over the thick trunk of a fallen tree. “Is it because it’s green?”

“Do you not know how to be quiet?” Hongjoong finally snaps. “Maker’s Breath but you haven’t stopped talking since we left three hours ago!”

The templar, helmet off and tied to his waist with a length of supple leather, pouts up at him with his cheeks red and sweat beading along his hairline. Clearly the armor wasn’t doing him any favors in the heat exhaustion department. Hongjoong almost entertains the twinge in his gut that makes him feel like being...nice. Like he should be offering up a strip of cloth cooled by the chill of ice magic.

“I was just trying to make conversation,” the templar says back with a grin. “You’re so grumpy!”

The twisty-turny feeling in his stomach instantly curdles back to annoyance. Hongjoong points a palm at the templar’s leather covered feet and concentrates. Casting magic is a bit like looking at the world a little to the left, a sideways crick in his neck when he pulls at the water molecules in the air and asks them to congregate and freeze despite the sun beating down through the canopy of trees. 

The templar’s boots freeze over in crisp white frosted tendrils shooting up from the ground. Yunho nearly trips with an exclaimed, “Whoa!” 

“Why don’t you stay there and catch your breath,” Hongjoong says sweetly. “We can chat another time.”

Unfortunately, the templar only waves a slightly glowing fist over the frosty spikes with a very put upon and exaggerated sigh. A dispelling charm. Hongjoong bites the inside of his cheek. So a high ranking templar was following him then, not a young recruit like he assumed. This could get bad and fast. 

“You had to have known that wasn’t going to work. I already told you I wrangle _mages_ for a _living_.” 

Hongjoong shrugs, ducking beneath an overhanging branch weighed down by a silken pouch of caterpillars. “Worth a try.”

“You’re awful. And mean. _Awfully mean_.”

“And _you’re_ the one following me, so what does that say about you?” Hongjoong debates unhooking his staff and swinging an arm back to crack at the templar’s skull with the business end of the crystal attached at the tip. More than likely a useless endeavor.

"Like I said, just doing my job following a rogue mage before he burns down anything else." Yunho hums a few bars of an old Chantry ballad about Andraste. “How come I’ve never seen you around the village?”

“Because.” Hongjoong says simply. The landscape has turned sharp and unwelcoming, dirt trails turning to slick rock face that threatens to send him tumbling off the side of this cliff to the treetops below. "Could say the same about you, Chantry Boy. The only person from the Church I'd seen around was an ex-templar turned honor guard who had a stomach almost as big as his huge corpulent head. Man always came around my neck of the woods to ransack my elfroot reserves and threaten to take my Chantry instated bi-monthly lyrium bottles." 

Yunho says nothing for a time. Whether it’s due to the landscape becoming increasingly dangerous to pick through or a sudden unwillingness to chat, Hongjoong isn’t sure. When his foot slips on a cluster of loose rock and watches the tumble of granite fall to the ground below, Hongjoong isn’t sure he cares overmuch either.

“The Revered Mother doesn’t like it when the templars, quote, cavort with the common folk,” Yunho finally says nearly two hours and several sheer drop-offs later. “She was very particular about the Order staying within reaching distance. Not to mention I wasn’t allowed to frequent the tavern because it would risk despoiling our piety.” He knocks against the helmet tied to his waist. "Also, helmet. It doesn't come off unless we're in the barracks."

“In other words, she keeps you guys on a tight leash,” Hongjoong says dryly. “Nice.”

Yunho huffs behind him. “You make it sound like a bad thing. We’re supposed to stay impartial, hanging around people not of the cloth can skew our views and turn justice on its head.”

“Oh Maker forbid you spend any amount of time with the _people_ ,” Hongjoong mocks. “Might find out the petty criminals you capture or the mages you shackle are just regular people trying to survive. Mustn't have that.”

The templar finally keeps quiet after that. They make it to the bottom of the cliff just after dusk has settled. Pinks and oranges filtering along the last rays of the sun drooping behind the horizon. Hongjoong squints into the distance until he finds--yes! Hongjoong sighs in relief. Beneath the bowed oak at the base is a small clearing he’d used as a makeshift camp the previous night. It had been the resting place of a large buck and his does, tamped down by hooves and the weight of their bellies days ago. A darkened patch of grass remained from the tiny fire Hongjoong cajoled from the ether to burn without the aid of firewood.

“Here we are,” he says and removes the knapsack to thump against the hard ground. “Make yourself at home.”

The templar crouches to watch Hongjoong wave his palms over the extinguished embers until they spring back to life with a snap and break of fire. 

“Impressive,” Yunho says with his chin propped in his hands. “How come you can do all this with just your hands? I’ve only ever seen mages using their staffs to direct primal elemental magic.”

Hongjoong shrugs. “I’m better than the average mage.” 

“That’s not an answer.”

“And you’re supposed to leave it alone until we get to Val Royeaux.” Hongjoong points at him with the end of a thick strip of deer jerky. It’s chewy and tastes almost entirely like gamey leather, but it’s better than nothing and Hongjoong doesn’t have the energy reserves to go hunting for fresh meat. Not after that climb up and down the cliff in one day.

Yunho only rolls his eyes. He takes a moment to unhook the various ties and metal latches holding his armor together and drops the whole lot in a heap by the tree. Even the broadsword is set aside. Hongjoong watches him warily. It’s not a sign of trust, they hadn’t known each other long enough for that--thankfully--but the easy way the templar sheds his armor is another notch under the list that says: beware, this man is dangerous and will gut you like a fish when you least expect it. 

Yunho stretches his arms up and over his head with a satisfied groan. “What’s your name, mage? I meant to ask earlier but we were busy not falling off the side of a cliff.”

“Mage is just fine,” Hongjoong says, clipped and untrusting.

The templar only shrugs and marches off into the thick foliage no doubt to relieve himself. He comes back a few hours later with two rabbits clenched in his fist and a smudge of dirt along the bridge of his nose. Hongjoong tsks. He’d hoped the man had gotten lost or fallen prey to one of the many wisps that like to lead travelers to the den of bears on a lark. Playful things, those wisps. Hongjoong fondly remembers having to treat one of his least favorite farmer boys for rashvine welts when he’d been lured by a wisp into a thick patch of the angry weeds.

Hongjoong watches him strip the meat and set it to cook against his fire. Yunho doesn't make a move to invade his space or to do--whatever it is templars do to keep mages in line. He's not trying to cast any disarming charms, no traps flickering through his fingers, no rope about his person to hogtie Hongjoong to a tree.

Yunho is apparently content to let sleeping dogs lie for the rest of the evening. Hongjoong accepts one of the roasted rabbits with a grudging frown and offers up a flask of water he’d magicked to stay cool, like it was fresh from a stream in midwinter, that the templar accepts readily enough. Their bedrolls are splayed on opposite sides of the fire, but when Hongjoong wakes some nebulous amount of time later, he swears he can see the glint of metal flashing at him from across the dying light of his fire. Almost like Yunho’s sword has taken up walking the perimeter of their small camp and glaring at him ominously in the dark.

The first few days are uneventful, just more of the same walking, listening to Yunho ask ten million questions, answering three at the most, and dodging the creeping tendrils of poison ivy along the overgrown path. Out here in the trees there’s no wagon path to travel by, only the sound of a little stream that peters in and out of existence the longer they walk. A drought had hit the region badly the year before and even the sulphuric stench of the creek that flowed through town waned. It was partially the reason Farmer Joon had made the switch from less hardy vegetables like tomatoes and peppers, the ground just wouldn’t sustain them. But _cabbage_ , oh cabbage was a hardy veg that took the hard packed ground as a challenge and _thrived_. 

Hongjoong glares at a vine of kudzu trying to inch its way into his field of vision and grins in satisfaction when the fronds curl away from him in fear.

On the fifth day, surrounded on all sides by trees and more trees, the templar reaches out to grab at Hongjoong’s arm with a tight grip and pulls him to a complete stop.

Here we go, Hongjoong thinks, it’s about time Chantry Boy showed his true colors out here in the wild where no one can hear him scream. His fingers already itch with the call to his staff, leather holding it to his back loosening itself in preparation.

Yunho doesn’t try anything though, only tugs at Hongjoong’s sleeve and says, hushed, “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Exactly.”

Hongjoong inclines his head to the side, closes his eyes, and waits. True enough, the forest is unnaturally silent. No birdsong. No gentle rustling of birds and rabbits and voles beneath shrubbery. No low whining song of the wind through the treetops. Even the stream they’d been following has lost its voice, the low gurgle of water over rocks eerily absent. It feels like the forest is waiting, like it’s holding its breath.

It feels terrified.

Hongjoong glances back at Yunho’s grim expression. “Any ideas?”

Yunho shakes his head. They continue along Hongjoong’s carefully plotted path at a more sedate pace, quieter than they had been--the usual clang of Yunho’s armor sounds dimmed and muffled. Even the templar himself has gone silent. Hongjoong oddly misses the constant looping background noise of his voice prattling on about the Chantry or the Revered Mother or Chanter Yeri, who was very nice and very old and always allowed Yunho use of the largest candle so he could learn his letters by candlelight. Worse yet, a deeply hidden part of Hongjoong’s heart begins to ache for his hovel, for the ex-templar who would knock on his door for his payment of copper, the constant whinging from the boys who chased rats all day and came home covered in stripweed sores already oozing from their scratching. It was almost a shame he’d burned that bridge, literally, and could never go back without a lashing.

The forest is quiet for a full day. 

As darkness falls, and the usual low-level cacophony of crickets and tree frogs remains unheard, Yunho keeps his armor on even though it's obviously uncomfortable to rest in. Hongjoong allows himself to sit a touch closer to the templar's tense side for warmth. They don't speak, they don’t even make a fire, only trading Hongjoong's flask back and forth and chewing through two strips of jerky each before settling into restless sleep. 

The next morning, when the odd silence finally breaks with the sound of a brook rushing not too far from camp, Yunho pulls him to his chest with a rough leather clad palm over Hongjoong’s mouth.

Hongjoong manages only a muffled, “What--”

“Shh! Shut up,” Yunho says tersely, barely over the edge of his breath. “Look.”

A buck stands at the edge of the water. Hongjoong squints and realizes--something isn’t right. The deer is grey, almost white, skin sloughing off its flanks in rubbery waves, wobbling on knees that look oddly bent--like it had broken every bone in its legs and they’d healed at all the wrong angles. Its head swivels left and right, down, and then all the way up with a sickening crack, gaped mouth pointed directly at the lone clearing of sky. Even from this distance, Hongjoong can see its eyes are white. Dead. Glazed over and leaking thick black sludge that can only be old blood. It lets out a long mournful wail, something dark and high pitched and so unlike anything he’s ever heard out of a deer’s throat that it makes his skin crawl. 

Yunho’s hand doesn’t move, but he tugs Hongjoong ever closer to his chest. Some overprotective instinct activating, no doubt, not that Hongjoong would move away at this point. He’d rather the buck--the still mobile _dead thing_ \--stayed unaware of their presence

The deer doesn’t move, but its groan stops abruptly. It convulses once, twice, and then a huge dark emission slowly begins to emerge from its mouth--old blood, a sludge of organ matter, something that smells old and rotted even from this distance, and a tang in the air that makes Hongjoong’s hair stand on end. 

Magic _._

Old, powerful _, immensely oppressive magic_. 

It makes his head hurt. His eyes ache. Something in him seems to break and he can feel a trickle of blood begin to slowly ooze out of his nose. Hongjoong holds the templar's hand to his mouth to help muffle the sound trying to crawl out of his throat--something not unlike a scream of pain as everything in his body seizes up at once from the onslaught of revolting demonic energy rolling over him in waves. They watch as the black presence rises up and out of the deer’s gullet, long tentacles reaching upward to the open sky until they disappear with a sudden rush of power that leaves the ground crackling with the scent of ozone and meat.

They wait huddled together and watch as the buck, finally cut loose of its preternatural strings, fall into a dead heap and rots away in a matter of seconds. 

Yunho is the first to break the silence. “Mage, can you tell if whatever that shit was is gone?”

Hongjoong closes his eyes in concentration, but all he feels is the earthy greenery around them trying to lean away from the putrefied corpse before them. He shakes his head. 

“It’s gone.” 

“Was it a demon?” 

“Dunno.” His legs shake. Yunho finally removes his hand and wipes the small flow of blood off his knuckles with a frown. Hongjoong refuses to feel guilty about it as he wipes the crust of dried blood off his own upper lip. As if he’d curtsy and simper out a delicate 'oh so sorry for having a magical nosebleed on you, kind sir, can you ever forgive me?'

“Never felt anything like that before, but it felt...old. Older than any spirit I've ever faced.” He shivers. “And _hungry_.”

“Hm,” Yunho says, then, “Wait here.”

Hongjoong watches the templar carefully pick his way around the deer’s corpse from his place leaning against a nearby sapling. He’s not one for earth magic, more attuned to the swirling anger of a flame, but he can just make out the beat of _not right, don’t want, no touch, please_ pulsing in the bark. Whatever that thing was, whatever the deer harbored, it wasn’t natural and the forest knows it. He gulps down bile when Yunho touches the edge of a hoof with the tip of his sword and an entire leg disintegrates into dust that swims away in a light breeze. 

“It’s dead,” the templar calls back after a few minutes of poking about. “About four months out, I think, possibly longer but it's hard to place with all the magical decay.”

“Wonderful,” Hongjoong tells his knees. The bark tingles under his palm, a panicked litany of _is it gone, is it gone, are we safe_. He stops touching it to cut the connection. His magic may be wild, but he’s never really enjoyed the feedback loop of the local flora trying to reach out, especially when it came time to harvest the fucking maker be damned cabbages. Always yelling out insipid _grow grow grow sunlight grow_ all the time. They were worse than _rocks_ , and rocks had all the intelligence of, well, rocks. 

“Let’s pretend we didn’t see it and walk away. All in favor say ‘Aye’,” Hongjoong says.

Yunho keeps nudging at the carcass in fascination. “Maybe we should report this to someone.” 

“Aye!” Hongjoong yells out and begins trooping his way upstream while giving the carcass and the templar a wide berth. “You can stay here to guard the dead thing while I run off. Have fun, see you never!”

“Aw!” Yunho follows after him at a trot. “You don’t have to be so mean after I let you bleed all over me earlier.”

“I am not going to get dragged into a magical pissing contest just because you want to poke at the weird demon deer,” Hongjoong says, tart. Already he feels better having put some distance between himself and the carcass and...whatever had been living inside of it.

Yunho catches up to him in a few quick strides and leans down to peek up at Hongjoong’s chin. “Is that your professional opinion? Just a demon?”

“It could have been possessed blood pudding for all I know,” Hongjoong mutters and viciously stomps his way through a patch of vividly green elfroot. "I'm not an expert on demons."

Truth be told he wasn’t an expert on being a healer, either. The last village, the one before he made his way to Yellow Creek, he’d been chased out after improperly dosing a man cradling a burned hand with an elfroot poultice that made him grow an extra thumb instead of skin over the raw flesh. Or the old woman he accidentally made grow a horn instead of curing her wracking dry cough. Or the kid with the--

It occurs to Hongjoong now that he should probably give up trying to masquerade as a healer when he was so terrible at herb lore. He grimaces. Too bad villages don’t necessarily welcome a mage whose sole purpose isn’t to heal the sick. Free mages were still a source of contention even after the rebellion had ended and the Circle reinstated with tighter shackles for those under its care. Hongjoong had left his original home when an enclave of Her Holiness’ finest had appeared in the main square to bring any free mages under its wing. A kindness, one of the men had said. To keep you safe from possession, another offered. Hongjoong had thanked them, told them he’d join after grabbing some necessities at home, and ran. 

He'd only stopped running when he made it to Yellow Creek. 

Yunho says nothing for a long time, just quietly crunches through the leaves and dried twigs underfoot.

"Hey, mage?"

"Yes?"

The templar's face screws up in concentration. "I've been meaning to ask this for a couple of days now, but, what does 'corpulent' mean?"

Hongjoong sighs. He should have just left the cabbage field well enough alone.


	3. The One Where Someone Gets Kidnapped

Another half-day’s journey away from...whatever that demonic sludge was the dead buck had been harboring, they happen across a section of forest that’s obviously been put to use as a temporary wagon route judging by the twin set of deep gouges through the earth. Hongjoong hadn’t heard of any traders coming by this way, but it wasn’t unheard of for pelt and lyrium smugglers to build makeshift roads through the woods going to and from Kirkwall. Perhaps this was a recent covert operation to bring illicit trade goods into the city or a small merchant’s caravan trying to escape paying entrance fees by coming through a hidden route. 

After a time, the road begins to widen with more signs of recent activity, more trampled grass implying multiple feet, and Yunho becomes--jumpy. 

Hongjoong pokes at the templar’s side with the end of his staff to keep from making unnecessary contact. “You’re acting weird.”

“No, I’m not,” Yunho says defensively. He slaps Hongjoong's staff away with a pointed glare and a childish pout. 

Hongjoong has known him for the better part of a week now and only gives the templar the dead-eyed stare of disbelief the statement warrants. 

“Alright, fine, maybe I’m a little quieter than usual.” The templar eyes the treeline on both sides of the path warily. “Uh--but...maybe we should consider sleeping in shifts tonight. Maybe even until we reach the city gates.”

Hongjoong idly spins a tiny ball of flame in his palm as practice. Sort of as a judge of how his mana reserves are holding up out here where he’s not practicing creating potions or tonics for all host of questionably inherited venereal diseases. “Why? Big scary templar worried about bandits?”

“Among other things,” Yunho says tightly. “We’ve been getting reports for weeks about a blood magic cult operating somewhere in the area, but the Order hasn’t been able to pinpoint their location because of the cloaking spells they use. Ambushing people off a main road sounds like something they’d do.”

Hongjoong casts a considering gaze around their surroundings. Nothing but trampled grass and old fading wheel marks. He can’t sense any recently cast spells, but if the cult is actually pouring power into a half-decent cloaking spell then he wouldn’t anyway. Any mage worth their salt in the fine art of subterfuge would be nigh untraceable in the mountains like this--surrounded on all sides by the low level fuzzing energy of greenery reaching out to muddle the waters. It wouldn’t be impossible, he thinks, but it would take a not insignificant amount of power to find the source.

“So then let’s walk through the forest far enough away to go undetected but close enough we don’t get lost. Is that fair, ser templar?” 

Yunho says nothing but swerves to the left to disappear into the foliage. 

“Is that a yes or are you falling back to piss?” Hongjoong calls out. 

It takes a moment before the templar throws back an embarrassed, “Both!”

Wandering off the beaten path is tricky. Hongjoong trips over a bunch of brambles seemingly every third step. Yunho has no such problem, not with his huge armor clad legs tearing his way through anything foolhardy enough not to move out of the way, but he does slow his pace so they keep within reaching distance. Hongjoong isn’t sure what to make of it if he’s honest. It could either be so Yunho can more easily grab him and maneuver Hongjoong out of harm’s way or pull him close as a meat shield. 

He glares at the templar’s back. 

He’d bet a whole silver piece on it being the latter. 

“Have you ever been to Val Royeaux?” Yunho asks at one point when they stop to take a break and share the flask Hongjoong had wandered off to refill from the nearby stream. 

“Only once and I don’t care to relieve the memory.” 

“Ah. Too many fancy cakes?” 

Hongjoong shivers. “Too many fancy cakes that also _cried_ when you bit into them. It was _unnerving,_ but all the nobles gobbled them up like it was an everyday occurrence and were bored by the experience. An old woman complained they didn’t cry _enough_ when she nibbled the crusts off.”

Yunho leans back to rest his weight on his arms and looks to the road, eyebrows furrowed like he’s trying to picture what a crying pastry would look like and coming up short. “Well...to be fair, most nobles are pretty ridiculous.”

“Well. Yes. But to willingly consume a cake that’s blubbering at them because it's supposed to 'taste like despair'?” 

Yunho shrugs. He says, “ _Nobles_ ,” as if that’s answer enough.

Hongjoong supposes it is.

“Why do you want to be a Chevalier? They’re all nobility or at least nobility _adjacent_.” Hongjoong scratches at a smudge of dirt caked on his cheekbone. “Dunno how you’d even join the ranks to begin with without a recommendation from one of those inbred weirdos.”

Yunho offers him a sideways crooked grin. “Thought you didn’t like talking and asking questions?”

“I--well--I was just,” he stutters, tripping over his tongue and the rush of self consciousness. “I’ve just become accustomed to all the chatter.”

The templar’s eyebrows raise nearly to his hairline, amusement clear in the dimpled curve of his cheek. “Uh huh.”

“Shut up.” 

Yunho mimes zipping his lips but his eyes are still crinkled up with mirth and it makes rage boil up hot in Hongjoong’s guts. With his fingertips beginning to sizzle with the first flicker of magical heat, Hongjoong puts some distance between them by walking faster and pretending his face isn’t as red as the center of freshly bloomed embrium. Thankfully nightfall isn’t too far away and he can distract himself from making a larger fool of himself by foraging for something other than old jerky. There are bulbs of fennel and green onion growing wild along the side of the road when he wanders close to the wagon tracks, more than likely seedlings that had fallen off a cart somewhere along the line and taken root.

They watch the sky fade from light blue to oranges and pinks from beneath the bough of an aging oak sitting on a bench someone had set up years ago and nature had yet to overtake. Moss is about the only thing holding the planks together at this point.

Yunho passes him strips of nug he’d managed to trap while Hongjoong built up a respectable fire. Not that it took much, the flame had leapt from his fingers almost as if it had been waiting for the chance to make itself useful. The nug is tough, but easier to choke down than venison jerky, and oddly-- _distressingly_ \--pink. They were a bit like rabbits, if rabbits were hairless and had creepy human looking feet. Nugs wouldn't be so bad if they at least had claws, but their limbs end in blunted fingertips with gross little crescent shaped nails. Hongjoong shivers. At least this means there's one less hairless gremlin running around in the dark.

Yunho insists they take turns guarding camp, outright refusing to get out of his heavy set of armor despite his ragged huffing and puffing once they’d finally settled down for the night with their bedrolls on opposite sides of the fire. 

“Why is the big scary templar so frightened of a bunch of mages hanging out in the woods?” Hongjoong busies himself with grinding a few herbs into a paste in case he gets cut on a wayward thorn or Yunho decides to get excitable with the sword he’s currently sharpening with a scary amount of focus. “Bit weird for someone who likes to brag he wrangles mages for a living all the time.”

Yunho scowls, but even in the firelight Hongjoong can see his ears are starting to flush. The whetstone in his fist makes a low grinding scrape, a few sparks crackling over the broadsword's edge.

“Usually it’s only the _one_ mage I’m wrangling instead of, you know, a whole damn cult, of _blood mages_ no less, with hate boners for templars. Excuse me for wanting to exercise a little bit of caution until we’re within seeing distance of Kirkwall’s gates.”

Sitting cross legged on his bedroll, Hongjoong leans back against his hands and considers the sky. “Can you really blame them for not liking templars though?”

The whetstone stops. 

“What do you mean?”

Hongjoong takes in a steadying breath to keep his anger in check. “Templars are the ones making our lives a living hell all the time. Can you really blame these mages for holding a grudge?”

In his experience all templars operated on the same level of self-righteous bigotry flying under the colors of the beloved Chantry, the only supposed lawful good remaining in a world that’s seen more rebellions and civil unrest in the last thirty years than all of Thedas’ colorful history--and that includes the Blights. Back in Yellow Creek, Hongjoong had to endure the old ex-templar who used to knock on his door nearly every other day to demand payment for not dragging him back to the Circle, a courtesy call the man called it. Hongjoong could never hold on to enough money to really get out of bumfuck nowhere because of him. Every silver, every single solitary copper he’d manage to scrounge out as payment for his services went to the former templar to keep him mollified and least likely to drag Hongjoong to a Circle for an even better payout.

He can't really blame a group of mages for banding together to keep themselves safe from the long reach of the Chantry's shackles.

Yunho slumps a little dejectedly over his weapon and smooths his hand over the newly shining edge. “Have you ever had to tell a little girl’s mother that her daughter wasn’t coming home because a mage decided he needed an extra source of power to summon a demon?”

Hongjoong winces. “Can’t say that I have, no.”

“I have,” Yunho whispers. “I have seen the best and worst magic has to offer and I still don’t know where I stand on it. Is it a force for good or just a supernatural source of evil masquerading itself as people? All I’ve ever done is bring justice to those who hurt the innocent, who rip apart families because they’re so thirsty for power, who slaughter an entire field of livestock as a sacrifice to a demon that ultimately kills them from the inside out.” The templar’s eyes are sad when he finally looks up from the bare blade. “You can’t fault me for that.”

“I suppose I cannot.”

The templar nods and goes back to focusing on his busy work of sharpening and polishing and cleaning the dirt out of the grooves of his chainmail that hangs low to the ground collecting dust. Hongjoong should probably do something about his own clothes. His linen breeches are basically stuck like a second skin at this point from sweat and more sweat, even the brief dip in the stream hadn't really done much for them other than make the water turn muddy brown. Even the leather jacket he'd carefully made two winters ago feels stiff and uncomfortable. 

Somber mood apparently forgotten, Yunho grins at him. “By the way, are you ever going to tell me your name?”

“No,” Hongjoong assures him. “Never.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Yunho falls back with an exaggerated petulant groan. “Because _why?_ You know mine, it’s really weird we’ve spent this much time together and I still don’t know _yours_.”

Hongjoong smirks, leaning his chin on his fist propped against his thigh. “Depends. You gonna explain how you’re going to join the Orlesian Empire’s _very exclusive_ military branch, Chantry Boy?”

The templar points at him, still prone on the ground. “Hand over your phylactery you evil no-name apostate.”

“Not a chance,” Hongjoong says sweetly. He destroyed his phylactery before he left home anyway. His original home, the one that had more than forty people living there at any given time and could actually support a business dedicated to creating gourmet cheeses. What he wouldn’t give for a chunk of brie right now.

Phylacteries were a point of contention between the Chantry, the Circles, and the newly formed Guild of Magi. One one hand, they were a safeguard against abominations being allowed to roam free. Yet on the other… 

He scowls. On the other hand, Hongjoong knows all too well what a phylactery in the wrong hands could mean for a free mage that does nothing but keep to themself and try to live their life in peace. No demonic studies. No forced battle strategy meetings. No crotchety old men in robes telling him he can’t go around talking to wisps just because he was bored and they were actually sources for stimulating conversation.

Yunho takes the first watch. 

His dreams, when Hongjoong finally finds sleep after tossing and turning for an indeterminate amount of time, are odd and nightmare-ish. He dreams of the demonic sludge growing larger and larger until it’s overtaking the forest. It touches the streams, instantly poisoning the water supply as the bellies of bloated dead fish rise to the surface. Where black tendrils leach into the soil, all manner of forest creatures run frantically from the darkness trying to slowly encompass their home--worse than any war or magical fistfight and every Blight combined.

He snorts awake with the phantom screaming wails of imaginary deer in his ears and a face hovering close to his own.

A man, elven judging by the huge eyes watching him balefully from the dark, crouching on his haunches. There’s a staff strapped to his back, a rudimentary one of thick wood with runes notched into the bark that glow threateningly along its length.

Hongjoong hastily scrambles upright and stares back with his heart pounding in his throat. “Hello?”

“All is well, brother,” the mage grumbles at him. “You are free once more. Leave the templar to us.”

He can’t turn around to check, but the man’s tone can only mean Yunho is no longer at camp. Not to mention the total absence of noise. Yunho has a bad habit of singing parts of the Chant under his breath while he’s staring off into the treeline. 

“Sure,” Hongjoong shrilly answers. “Um excuse my ignorance, but, who is ‘we’ exactly?”

The mage remains silent, mouth pulled down at the corners in a moue of annoyance. Instead of answering, he reaches a hand out to pull Hongjoong close by the leather strings of his shirt. The elf leans closer still until they are nearly nose to nose. His breath is sour. “We are of Him. You will do well to join us, brother.”

“I like to work alone, but thanks a ton for the offer.” Hongjoong tries to laugh off. The grip on his shirt is tight and seemingly growing tighter the longer Hongjoong delays agreeing. “Mind letting go of me now? I’d like to get back to sleep if it’s all the same to you.”

The mage’s eyes dilate. “Sleep?”

Hongjoong picks at the fingers caught up in his shirt. “Yes, you know, the thing where I close my eyes and hallucinate for a couple of hours and wake up _not_ wanting to kill things.”

“He is well acquainted with sleep.” The mage smiles. His teeth have all gone brown which would explain the sour smell carrying on his breath. Hongjoong only just resists the urge to gag. “Allow this unworthy one to help.”

Two fingers press to the center of his forehead and with a zap of pain and a queasy feeling rolling over his head, Hongjoong can only give a slurred, “What was?” before he faints. Blood magic. A fellow mage used _blood magic_ on him. He would be pissed if he had the cognitive ability to scream about it.

Yunho _did_ warn him there was a cult in the area, but Hongjoong thought they’d be too busy frolicking naked in the woods or sacrificing raccoons to really bother with two people who were very clearly wandering around with empty pockets.

Hongjoong wakes up well into the afternoon disoriented and confused. His eyes hurt and his mouth tastes rancid to the point even finishing off the flask of chilled water does nothing to wash it out. He’s almost convinced himself it had just been a weird dream except when he goes to scrub the dirt that had caked along his cheek in the night, Hongjoong finds a nice little surprise embedded into his palm. A void. A deep blackened circle of skin that could almost be confused with a blot of ink except for the part where it doesn’t smudge when he tries to scrub it off. 

The campsite is relatively undisturbed. His bedroll had been left alone, the knapsack doesn’t look as if it’s been rifled through, and the fire had been left to burn down to the embers. Whatever the mage had been after, it definitely wasn’t to rob them.

He squints. Yunho’s bedroll, which is little more than a glorified blanket Hongjoong had packed as extra bedding, is still laid flat and empty. No signs of a struggle, but the templar is nowhere in sight.

“Blood and piss,” Hongjoong seethes under his breath. “Don’t grow a conscience _now_ you bastard. He can handle himself.”

‘I wrangle mages for a living,’ Yunho had said, ‘I’m a big powerful templar and my sword is not at all compensating for _anything_.’

Except…

The sword Yunho had been meticulously sharpening the night before is leaned up against a tree. Which means Chantry Boy doesn’t have a weapon other than the boot knife strapped to his waist and...nothing. Nothing but dispelling charms and whatever other anti-magic abilities Yunho had stuffed up his sleeve.

His hand itches. 

Even the sword looks sad.

Hongjoong kicks a rock at it. “Shut up. I don’t have to listen to you.”

The sword continues to say nothing, because it's a _sword_ , but it's got a very judgmental air about it that he does not appreciate. Hongjoong glares. “No. He can defend himself just fine without you.”

The sword glints angrily.

Hongjoong scowls harder and packs up as quickly as he can manage with his hands shaking from nerves. Thankfully the broadsword isn't as heavy as it looks and straps to his back alongside his staff without issue.

" _Fine_ , but I'm blaming you if this ends with the both of us at the bottom of some cannibal's cauldron instead of just your master."

The sword remains silent, but Hongjoong imagines the weight on his back becomes a little lighter.

"I'm going insane," Hongjoong tells himself before setting off through the path of broken branches leading away from camp.


	4. Never Trust a Wisp

The trail through the forest goes cold almost immediately. He probably should have expected as much, what with a murderous cult of idiotic blood mages playing around with powers obviously above their station, but it’s still gutting to blunder his way through dense greenery only to come to a standstill in the middle of a collection of half-bare trees, yellowed at their bases from a kind of parasitic moss, and losing the trail he’d been following with single-minded purpose. His visual compass is wiped clean. If only the weird ink dripped on the middle of his palm would do the same, his skin is really starting to itch along the edges of the mark he'd woken up with and it's a distraction he doesn't need or want for this rescue mission.

“Well,” Hongjoong tells nothing and no one, especially not the sword at his back, “If I were part of a cult, where would I wander off to in the middle of nowhere?” 

An answer doesn’t come to mind. He’s only been out this far once, and that had been on a trek to find more elfroot and spindleweed for a poultice to cure the mayor’s wife of a fever that refused to break during the worst of the drought when resources were scarce. There were no strange rambling dead forest animals or secret cabals of mages performing dark rituals back then. 

Everything looks almost exactly the same from where he’s standing. There are no more drag marks of a booted foot against the ground or broken branches no doubt snagged on tough robes or the odd scattering of blood blotted along a leaf. Hongjoong steadfastly ignores the way his stomach twists imagining Yunh-- _the templar_ bleeding around a bunch of people who were actively trying to use the liquid to their advantage. 

The sword, his lone companion aside from the staff, seems to grow heavier. It feels ridiculous to think an inanimate object can feel any kind of emotion, but Hongjoong finds himself reaching back to pat reassuringly against the grip anyway. “Don’t worry, I’ve not given up yet. How far could they have gotten, really? Big guy like that isn’t going to go without a fight.”

He hates doing it, but Hongjoong decides his first course of action is going to have to be touching the nearest tree again to allow the deep thrum of green energy to touch his mind and hope it has something useful to tell him. Old trees with thick trunks speak slower than a drip of congealed molasses out of a bottleneck, but the young ones--

 _‘Hi hi magic hello hi birds in the branches a vole at my feet hello,_ ’ blasts through his brain and Hongjoong grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, waiting. ‘ _Magic magic hi hello oh a human hi_ ,’ the young birch happily pulses at him, ‘ _no humans here where oh the birds again an egg hello!_ ’

“You are the least helpful plant in Thedas, you know that?”

Hongjoong can just make out the enthusiastic wiggling of new roots before dropping his hand from the wood and severing the connection. The young tree’s disjointed thoughts rattle around in his brain for a moment longer before clearing. When they finally dissolve, a new awareness settles in just behind his left shoulder--the coalescing energy of a wisp terrorising a family of beetles beneath a thorny bush only a few steps away from the path he’d been following.

The wisp looks up at him with eye sockets surrounded by the ghostly memory of skin, old crumbling bones floating just beneath the surface. Bones have no real way of looking shocked, but there is definitely an aura of ‘oh deary me’ surrounding it as Hongjoong folds back the edges of a blackthorn bush.

“Good afternoon,” Hongjoong says at the same moment the wisp screeches. He winces, only barely managing to keep from clapping his hands against the ear piercing wail. “Oi, calm down! I’m not here to hurt you!”

The wisp phases through the foliage and hovers just out of reach. “No?”

“No,” Hongjoong agrees. “Actually, I could use your help.”

The wisp makes a cautious circle around him. “You are beacon bright. A mage?”

Hongjoong nods. He holds a palm out flat to form a tiny sliver of light, a lightning spell he’d modified two months ago out of boredom. The light fuzzes, arcs out over the edges of his fingers where he can’t quite hold it together. It’s a bit like trying to contain the static that builds up when brushing wool and tingles all the way to his elbow in numbing jolts.

Wisps are a suspicious sort of creature mostly because they exist in and out of time, observing from the sidelines in every era to the point they get a bit mixed up and confused. Sometimes they’re ages in the past and can only communicate in languages that have been dead for centuries. One at the old Circle stubbornly refused to acknowledge anyone unless it was a Feast Day and could only be cajoled into talking if Hongjoong brought it a basket of wine and sweetmeats. All of them Hongjoong has ever encountered demanded displays of magical prowess before deigning to speak, so he assumed this one is no different.This one looks relatively young by wisp standards--its arms are still intact and even the phantom outline of eyebrows bob up and down. It can’t be more than 100 years old, if that.

It touches the ball of light, briefly, and nods satisfied as if Hongjoong has passed some kind of test. It droops until the shifting image of legs touch the ground. “How may I be of service?”

Hongjoong breathes a sigh of relief and lets the magic hovering over his fingertips finally crackle away with a pop and the faint whiff of ozone. He has to shake out the numb tingling settling along his wrist. “A group of mages passed through here recently with a templar among them. Did you see where they went?”

“Hmmm,” the wisp drawls. It floats upside down again, chin in hand. “Elvhen mages and a man with shiny armor?”

Relief surges through his chest. Hongjoong nods. “Yes!”

The wisp purses its mouth, which is disconcerting to look at considering the lips don’t actually stay visible over the grinning skull. “Haven’t seen them.”

“That's strange considering I made no mention of elves or the templar's armor.”

The wisp shrugs. It lazily drifts a circle around Hongjoong’s head just out of reach. “Maybe I did see them, maybe I didn’t. What will you give me if I have?”

Of course, Hongjoong groans internally, of course the spirit is going to choose to be difficult. The young ones are usually more cooperative than this, but clearly this spirit hadn’t gotten the message. “What do you want?”

The wisp rights itself on the ground once more and coalesces thicker--its limbs darken just the slightest with the memory of clothing and a flash of phantom staff in its left grip. A cord of rope wrapped around its neck manifests for an instant before disappearing. 

Hongjoong holds back a wince. Obviously this spirit had been a mage before and had been destroyed because of their power. Because of a gift they had no way of rejecting. 

“I’m not giving you my staff,” Hongjoong says preemptively. 

“Not the whole staff.” The wisp’s mouth quirks up, like they're only just tamping back laughter. “I couldn’t hold it even if I wanted to. No, what I want from you,” and here it points a long skeletal finger just over Hongjoong’s shoulder, “is the focusing crystal attached to the tip.”

Reflexively, Hongjoong’s right hand flies to his back to curl his fingers over the knob of quartz he’d dug out of the ground and molded to the approximate shape of a flame by hand. He’d imbued enough of his own mana, his magical essence, his blood and sweat that even a passing thought of fire has the crystal thrumming with energy. To part with it now would be…

Asking Hongjoong to give away the crystal is tantamount to asking for him to willingly chop off a finger. Or his nose. A _testicle_. It’s an unthinkable request and the wisp knows it.

His fingers scrape against the hilt of Yunho’s sword. Hongjoong wilts.

“I’ll give it to you.” 

The wisp visibly perks, beginning to float again as it forgets to keep its legs manifested and starts to reach out to cup the crystalline flame. Hongjoong steps away with a scowl. He holds a hand up. Fire licks upward from between his fingers as a barrier and the wisp recoils back toward the bush with an echoing scream of outrage.

Mouth inhumanly wide, the wisp continues to wail, “Liar!”

Hongjoong’s mouth pinches inward. “I’m not. I swear to you the crystal is yours on one condition.”

The wisp bares its teeth. “Speak your condition, mage.”

“You must show me exactly where the elves took my fr--” Hongjoong’s throat closes up tight for an instant. Yunho is a templar and a Chantry bootlicker, he is the embodiment of everything Hongjoong has learned not to trust. Yunho is not a _friend_. “Where they took the templar. Then, and only then, I will hand over the focus. Do we have a deal?”

“I could just as easily take the crystal from your corpse,” the wisp hisses between teeth that have slowly begun to sharpen much like a demon’s maw. The human skeleton fuzzes around the edges as if the wisp is forgetting how to keep itself together. Perhaps that’s why it needs the focusing crystal from his staff, an anchoring source of magic to keep the wisp from losing itself to otherworldly temptation by turning into a demonic entity.

Hongjoong would feel sympathetic if he didn’t need the wisp’s cooperation. The flames burn higher as he concentrates on creating a magical barrier between them. “And I could burn your essence until nothing is left.”

There’s a tang in the air now not unlike the scent surrounding the black sludge being carried by the infected deer. It’s the stench of demonic energy, of a creature just before rot sets in. The wisp rises higher and Hongjoong can almost taste the hateful sludge leaching into the old bones. 

“Give me the crystal or I will devour you,” the wisp angrily demands.

“I won’t harm you. Just show me where the templar was taken and you can have the crystal, freely given. Taking it by force would be useless and you know it,” Hongjoong tries, again. “Unless you’d rather stay angry and become a wraith. Your choice.”

The wisp gives a full body shudder, and in an instant the tang of demonic energy vanishes with a last putrid waft on the wind. The translucent bones regain their definition once more. “I do _not_ want to become one of those... _things_.” 

“Then you’ll help me?” Hongjoong asks hopefully.

“I will take you to the place your templar was last seen,” the wisp finally agrees and Hongjoong finally allows his burning barrier to extinguish. 

He decides not to comment on the ‘your templar’ part. Yunho isn’t _his_ , he’s just--it’s the neighborly thing to do when someone gets kidnapped by a murder cult in the middle of the woods. Not that Yunho was his neighbor. In all honesty, Hongjoong hadn’t known Yunho was even residing in the Chantry barracks _at all_ when Hongjoong had made it a point to memorize the comings and goings of templars from the church. Was Yunho new? Had Hongjoong just seen the armor and supposed it was just someone else?

Hongjoong bites at his thumb as he trails after the wisp leading him deeper into densely packed woods. It’s already midday, but even still the branches blot out the sun so totally he has a difficult time tracking the wisp’s winding path through trees that all look the same. After what could only be two hours of stumbling through bush after bush after high rooted tree, Hongjoong scrapes a burning finger along the bark of an old pine that would no more feel the mark as it would a ladybug crawling along one of its thousands of leaves.

An endless handful of minutes pass by and Hongjoong’s suspicions are confirmed: the wisp is leading him in circles.

“You know I could banish you with minimal effort?” He comments dryly.

The wisp snorts. “Do not flatter yourself, mage. The Elvhen have concealed the entrance with a complex web of charms. We are almost through.”

Hongjoong keeps the fire he’d used on the pine flicking along his finger just in case this turns out to be a ruse to get him turned around and lost so he can turn into the victim of the elements and the wisp can collect his focus without hassle. 

With a pop Hongjoong can feel in his _teeth_ , they emerge from the woods and find themselves standing at the entrance of a foreboding blood covered cave. 

“Oh, _of course_ the blood magic cult has to make camp in a deep dark cave in the middle of nowhere.” He hesitates at the opening. “How many spiders do you think live in here?”

The wisp floats towards the entrance and goes no further as if running into a barrier. It twists its head to and fro before shrugging. “A lot.”

“Big ones?” The sword on his back weighs heavily along his spine. Hongjoong has a strong urge to give it a reassuring pat. 

The wisp offers up a grin. Or maybe a frown, hard to tell with all the immovable bones and skin that can’t decide if it wants to be visible or not. “Huge ones.”

Hongjoong whimpers. Great. Just magnificent. He’s going to end up in the belly of a tarantula the size of a tower on this fool’s errand. He should just turn around and go back.

Instead of doing what he _should_ , Hongjoong grabs a thick branch and coaxes the tip to burn with a flick of his wrist as a makeshift torch. He also reaches back to untie the focus crystal from its bindings. The wisp nearly vibrates with barely contained energy, snatching the crystal from Hongjoong’s palm and swallowing it whole. 

He watches in fascination as the quartz stays hovering in the spirit’s chest like a makeshift heart instead of dropping straight down to the ground. He’d expected the wisp to absorb the energy and leave the actual stone behind instead of incorporating it into itself. Strange. The old man back at the Circle would have a field day studying the phenomena.

“A word of caution, mage.” The wisp hovers close, bumping up against the invisible barrier surrounding the cave’s entrance. “The blood on the ground sings. Do not listen.”

“Thanks, I think.” Hongjoong grips tight to the straps holding his weapons in place, clenches the base of his torch, and shudders. “Hey, if I die, can I come hang out in the blackthorn bush with you?”

“No, but there is a thicket of unoccupied cabbage where--”

“Nevermind,” Hongjoong cuts the spirit off, much to its amusement. The cave is damp and cold and reeks of mildew. Blood splatters and random bits of meat. Hongjoong can only hope they came from the kind of animal that runs on four legs instead of two. 

With a deep steadying breath, he walks forward until the wisp and the last rays of the sun disappear.


	5. Caves Are For Spiders (And Meat Monsters)

Once, when he was six -- maybe seven -- Hongjoong had wandered away from home and stumbled upon a cave hidden behind a curtain of moss and crawling ivy. It wasn’t really much of anything at the time, just a chunk of rock that had gone mysteriously missing and left a dark tunnel set into the mountain only a few feet deep, closed off before a bend in the limestone by a cave-in, but it was dark and cozy and Hongjoong remembers huddling up with a tiny ball of flame and a blanket he’d snatched from a merchant cart. It was his safe haven; a home away from home.

This cave is the same as any insofar as Hongjoong knows, considering he’s never really been in one larger than the size of that small crater before today. It’s cold and dark and damp. There’s an incessant drip-drip-drip off to his left that echoes oddly in the nooks and crannies of the surrounding limestone. Thankfully, no giant spiders have dropped down from the ceiling to suck his brains out, though he did step on a particularly diseased looking black widow several paces back that left a sticky wet sludge on the underside of his boot and now the suction of rock meeting guts echoes with every other step.

“I am not made for caves,” Hongjoong whispers under his breath. He twists through another cramped passageway and dodges between stalagmites rising from the floor to trip him. It’s a good thing he prefers to wear proper breeches than he does robes like other mages his age, no doubt the long fabric would be getting caught up in the rocks and making this slow and treacherous trek through the damp harder than it already is. So far the winding path has been fairly straightforward, most of the branching offshoots of open cavern have been blocked off by rope and wooden stakes presumably so members of the cult didn’t end up lost in the dark.

Hongjoong shudders. Streaked across the floor and the walls is the unmistakable smear of old blood, black and crumbling and rank. He has no way to know if any of it belongs to the templar. He has no way to know if Yunho is even still alive.

“Mark my words,” Hongjoong growls low, directed at the sword strapped to his back, “Losing my focus crystal better have been worth it, because if it turns out your master let himself get killed by a bunch of third rate blood mages I’m going to tear open the veil and yell at him _myself_.”

The statement is met with predictable silence and Hongjoong is suddenly, viscerally aware of how lonely it is without Yunho’s incessant chatter about nothing and everything trailing after him.

He passes another globule of what looks to be animal viscera left to fester attached to the cave wall. Even the leather of his coat sleeve held over his face isn’t thick enough to keep the cloying stench of it from entering his nose, his mouth, swirling thick in his throat when he takes too deep a breath. The odd inky black mark on his hand aches for a moment when he passes a small river of old and new blood left to spill from a wooden bucket.

“This is a fool’s errand,” Hongjoong grumbles, hushed, under his breath.

His staff feels like an awkward unwieldy weight next to the sword strapped to his back. Usually it weighs nothing, like an extra extension of his arm he doesn’t have to think about, but without the focus crystal at the top it feels like nothing more than a carved piece of wood. Soon he’ll have to locate another chunk of quartz, or something more settled like drakestone, and start the whole process of infusing his essence into it all over again.

The cave narrows, then widens into a deep seemingly bottomless cavern with only a thin walkway of marbled rock held together by a glimmering sheen of magic to cross the chasm. Hongjoong frowns.

When he dips to reach down into the core of the rock, instead of the slow barely there whisper of generational thought, he’s greeted by the low simmering energy of blood magic -- zinging, putrid phantoms that caress his arms and beckon him to add to its greedy clutch of cannibalizing claws. The magic feels far, _far_ too hungryfor something that’s only purpose is to hold up a damn bridge.

“Well,” Hongjoong manages around a gag, “either there’s a high ranking magister at the other end of this cave or these people are in deep with demons.”

He’s met with silence. Hongjoong had hoped by now he’d be hearing something -- anything at all -- that would suggest the stupid templar hadn’t gone and gotten himself skewered as a sacrifice.

It’s more than likely only his imagination, but it feels like the bridge tries to suck greedily at his boots as he crosses as if it’s trying to lick up his legs. His marked hand burns the entire trip before settling back down to an ignorable tingle once he’s on the opposite side and facing another long, dark, and narrow branch of the tunnel roped off on all sides as a guide. Half-way through this new offshoot he notices the first sound that isn’t his breathing or the click of his heels to the limestone -- a wet, sticky sound followed by meaty thuds. 

Another bend and Hongjoong peeks around the corner to come face to face with what can only be described as a _thing_.

A great hulking mass slides down the far end of the tunnel with an awkward stilted gait. The flaming torch can only illuminate so much, but the stench wafting from the far end of the tunnel where the lumpy form is shambling to and fro is answer enough: a homunculus.

Whoever was in control of it obviously didn’t care for making it pretty. Hunks of flesh and decaying organs drip to the floor only to be picked back up again by a thin stream of lightning on the next pass. Though, someone had also gone to great lengths to procure enough mud, meat, and organ matter to make the thing big enough it essentially covers the doorway to what he can only assume is the true entrance to the blood mage den. At least ten men, perhaps more, all gored and chopped up to use as a glorified meat shield.

Something makes a popping noise within the beast, releasing gas that fills the chamber and sends Hongjoong reeling back trying not to retch everything he’s ever eaten in the last _year_. It reeks of death and months old rot. 

“They can keep the templar for all I care,” Hongjoong wheezes to the sword, holding his stomach as it cramps to twist away from the horrible smell. “Why don’t we just go back and ask the wisp to lead us back to the main road, huh? Much easier that way.”

Again the sword says nothing because it is a _bitch_ and Hongjoong should absolutely just untie the knot keeping it strapped to his back so it can go save Yunho itself. It glints balefully at him through the firelight, the judgmental piece of iron. He can practically hear the low whine of Yunho's voice griping about being left in a cave and, given his luck in life, Hongjoong is going to end up haunted -- the disembodied pissy templar mocking him from beyond the grave.

The sword grows heavy. Out of _spite_.

“I’m not a coward, _you’re_ the coward,” Hongjoong growls, already stomping back to the bend so he can watch the disgusting jumble of meat and magic pretend to walk. “If I get any of that shit on me, your master is going to be the one to foot the cleaning bill.”

The sword lightens, preens.

He has to time this just right. Winding a ball of lighting around his fingers is harder without a focused staff, though he manages without much difficulty. The mass groans long and loud with the voice of at least three men and a handful of animals before turning back. _Now_. As soon as one side of the homunculus touches the wall, Hongjoong sends the lightning thread over the wet limestone until he feels it connect, takes hold in the pieced together edges of matter, and wrenches his arms back in a quick jerking motion, his muscles bulging against the strain.

The homunculus pauses mid step and bleats a single confused note before exploding. All the stitched pieces lose the magic keeping them together and go slopping off to the side, glopping into huge messy piles that Hongjoong maneuvers around as best he can in the relative dark. The last thing he needs is to slip on someone’s old nose and land point first on the razor thin edge strapped to his back.

Once truly inside, Hongjoong can make out the distant sound of voices and the heart stopping slide of metal along a grindstone. There’s a faint glow of embers reflecting on the wall, so he extinguishes his own torch in favor of allowing the fire to alight on his fingertips to trail along the walls as a guide. He has to stop the closer he gets to the lightsource though, because for some Maker be damned reason the stones have started to literally sing.

 _In his head_.

Sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip, Hongjoong attempts to ignore the dizzying mantra of _brother, father, home at last, join us, join us_ without much success. He has to pause to hug his knees, to cover his ears with his hands until they all hurt with the force of it. The singing beckons him inward toward the interior of the cave where the blood mages have congregated, promises him power beyond all reason for a moment of his time. Fronds of ghostly, invisible fingers dig deep into his brain, tug at the old memories of _before_ \--

Hongjoong grits his teeth. “I’d rather be listening to the cabbage right now.”

“Brother, cabbage is only for the rabbits and the uninitiated,” a voice echoes from the distant dark.

Hongjoong groans. 

Shit.

“Terrible stuff that cabbage. Wouldn’t be caught dead putting it anywhere near my mouth.” When he looks up, he comes face to face with the elven mage who’d ambushed him at camp wearing an expression twisted up in something approximating triumph. “Lovely to meet you again. Have you done in that templar yet?”

“We have yet to begin the ritual.” The mage reaches down and hauls Hongjoong up by the back of his collar, his hot fetid breath washing over Hongjoong in an almost physical wave. “We welcome your input, brother. He has been most unsettled without His chosen one to funnel through.”

“Who? The templar?” Hongjoong allows himself to be dragged by the mage since he’s not openly hostile -- yet -- and is, presumably, leading him towards wherever they’ve stashed Yunho.

The mage ignores him. Like most other mages Hongjoong has ever had the pleasure of meeting, he’s dressed in robes adorned with bone fragments and elaborate swirling loops of embroidery and beadwork. He grimaces. It’s gaudy and ugly and impractical in his mind when the most anyone needs is a good pair of hardy boots, soft breeches, and a leather coat to ward off the elements, yet mages tend to hoard little bits and bobs on their person as if they’ve never heard of the concept of a pocket. Peacocks, the lot of them. 

Each step brings them closer to a new room where heat radiates in pulses against his skin and his hand begins to burn with the same slow throb. There’s an open pit of hot coals and magicked inky black flames licking upward to the ceiling without clouding the air with smoke. Three other mages, all elven, are bent over various tasks; one chopping hunks of a person recently expired, another boiling what smells like actual blood and piss, and the last chanting ominously from a thick leather bound tome at --

“Yunho,” Hongjoong groans under his breath. 

Sure enough, the templar is kneeling in prayer with his eyes closed and head bowed, safely encased in a globe of protective light, slowly reciting the Chant like he’s reading it, poorly, by candlelight. Hongjoong glares at him. They’ve stripped him of his armor and chainmail leaving Yunho dressed only in his linen unders, smudged with dirt and blood and god knows what other filth but seemingly left uninjured. Who gets abducted by cannibalistic blood mages and decides to take a knee instead of fighting them off and running away? So much for being a champion of the chantry.

The mage in charge finally releases his hold on Hongjoong’s clothing and raises his arms high in the air.

“He, who gives meaning to the meaningless, your humble servant has brought your chosen,” the mage booms. The others all jerk upright at the sound, moving away from their assigned tasks to join hands in a half-circle around the flaming pit. Their eyes are vacant, milky white. Hongjoong can see the spider web of veins collecting around their mouths and over their cheeks where the malnourishment and lack of sunlight has turned the skin translucent. There are blood speckles around their mouths, blood discoloring their hands, god knows what caked beneath their fingernails and Hongjoong mentally recoils knowing the guy in charge had his filthy hands on his clothes.

While the group is distracted, Hongjoong edges his way to Yunho’s side, knocking surreptitiously against the anti-magic barrier to get his attention. The barrier is rock hard and actually burns the skin of his knuckles like a hot poker fresh from the fire.

“Psst, hey.” Another knock. Another burn across his knuckles for the effort. “Hey, dumbass!” 

Yunho pauses in his chant. “Mage?”

Hongjoong unlaces the sword and carefully drops it down to hover just over the floor. “You forgot this at camp, thought you might want it back.”

Yunho’s face is smudged with dirt and there’s an ugly bruise forming beneath his chin Hongjoong is only just now noticing, but he smiles wide in thanks. The barrier wavers when Yunho unclasps his hands, falls away entirely when he reaches out to touch the sword. “Thanks, I--” 

Yunho cuts off with a low scream.

The woman in charge of chopping earlier has broken off from the disturbing chant circle and decided the templar needed a new hole in his arm courtesy of her tiny boot knife. She turns to Hongjoong with a gummy, snaggle toothed smile, as if she’s expecting praise for a job well done.

“Brother, the blood of the Mother is invaluable to our summoning,” she gleefully informs him. “We are in your debt for removing that troublesome barrier. Brother Han has been chanting for two moons attempting to break it.”

Yunho bites back a wail of pain when the knife is unceremoniously jerked free from his arm, falls to his knees from the intense agony of it slicing so deeply into his skin. The mage kicks his sword far enough away that it goes skittering just out of reach. 

Hongjoong barely registers the words. Yunho’s blood trickles in deep rivulets through fingers clenched over the wound to staunch the bleeding. Maker only knows why, but Hongjoong cannot seem to look away from it. The instant a thick fat drop of blood hit the stone, the singing in his head reached a fever pitch, blocking out all sound except for a cacophony of promises and begging, telling him to touch the new blood. His hand with the mark burns with an intensity that makes him shake all over. An adrenaline rush, only Hongjoong isn’t sure the adrenaline is his alone.

The chanting begins again, only this time there’s a new flicker of energy in the air that roots Hongjoong to the spot, paralyzes his gaze on Yunho’s pained, angry expression as blood begins to rise from the stonework around them to hover like a heavy red mist.

“Did you know about this,” Yunho hisses at him, his jaw clenched tight against the agony of a new wound. “Did you lure me into the woods for your insane blood cult?”

He means to say _no_ and _why would I trade the piss river village full of decent housing and sunlight for this godawful place,_ but what comes out is a faint, “Ah,” as the blood around them surges at once to the mark on his hand and all goes black.  
  
  
  



	6. Don't Put That in Your Mouth

The thing about the Veil is that’s not really a thing at all. It barely even qualifies as a place beyond leading to the Fade, the phantom imaginary land where all the bad things dreamed up by people too inventive for their own good or screwing around with powers beyond their ken exist. Mages like to make grandiose statements about the Veil being thin in places where some royal so-and-so died, or telling some poor farmer his crop is failing because of a thinning in the Veil allowing demons to leech the life from the soil instead of just reminding him that fertilizer is a thing, or charging an obscene amount of gold to wave their hand over a boat house where some noble’s idiot son had pushed in a servant who didn’t know how to swim and now the nets were no longer bringing in fish where the corpse had bloated. 

The truth is, the Veil is thin _everywhere._ You can basically puncture the metaphysical barrier with your finger if you know where to look.

Hongjoong doesn’t so much poke a finger through as fall face first through the world to land in a dark pit oddly lined by the telltale green glow of veilfire. He groans. His hands had been scraped by the fall and they sting with the sharp burn of a shallow cut, his knees ache, something in his back feels jarred in a way he doesn’t want to think too hard about -- like maybe he’d fallen on his staff or the sword had made good on its unsaid promise to maim him if he didn’t save Yunho from a bunch of demon worshipping idiots.

He reaches out blindly until his fingers connect with the edge of—something. It’s not really a wall, per se, but it is rigid for the most part despite the chill that erupts over his skin at the contact and the soft fuzzy quality of the air above it, like it’s the _thought_ of a wall trying to form under his fingertips without any of the material needed to make it happen. Veilfire crackles like lightning where his hand connects.

Hongjoong finally stumbles to his feet. 

Wherever he’s landed is attempting to recreate the cave he was just in only it’s a terrible rendition considering the walls are basically see through. Rock has no business shifting in and out of focus. He’s surrounded on all sides by darkness, yet strangely backlit by phantom sunlight for visibility and the eerie glow of veilfire -- green and sickly where it pulses in the seams of this nightmare facade. 

“Hello?”

No answer. 

Not that Hongjoong expects, or _wants,_ one, but it’s always best to know your surroundings. If this were really the Fade, then any passing demon would hear him and descend upon him for a light snack before they go on their merry way to seduce a priest or eat some innocent child’s soul or whatever it is demons do on their downtime. 

He strikes out toward an opening on an opposite wall, skirting around the edge of the fire pit that is still burping up black flames even here, and keeps a hand on the closest ‘wall’ so as not to get lost. Where the mark resides on his other hand is a lance of pain and Hongjoong doesn’t actually have the courage to look at or deal with it yet. It could have sprouted tentacles for all he knows. An extra finger. Hell, his whole hand could be lopped off at the wrist and all he’ll find is a bloody stump.

Fear sweat beads along his upper lip. He ignores that, too.

The opening of this part of the cave system widens into a bottomless chasm, much like the one in the real world with the evil magic sucking bridge going across. Probably not a good sign.

He turns back and suddenly shadowy figures are swaying around the fire pit. One, vaguely humanoid in shape, drops to its knees and splinters into four disgusting lumps. Another tries to run in the opposite direction before it too seems to dissolve into shadowed yet somehow still meaty hunks. The last figure stands directly across from him on the other side of the fire pit, shadowy arms raised, and veilfire seems to surge in its direction. 

Perhaps this is what magic looks like from the other side? 

Curiosity has always been his downfall. Hongjoong drops his connection to the wall and walks up close enough to touch the hand where the veilfire has gone soupy between its fingers. The shadow figure doesn’t move, but when he reaches out to touch --

Hongjoong comes to with a foul taste in his mouth, an odd view of the cave ceiling, and a rocking vantage of the underside to Yunho’s chin. So he’s being carried like a swooning damsel, lovely.

“Your sword is a bitch,” he croaks. 

Gods but his throat feels ragged. As if he’d screamed for several hours without pausing for breath. He tries to swallow but even that renders him momentarily blanked by pain. 

“My sword is not sentient.” Yunho glances at him briefly before staring resolutely ahead. “Go back to sleep, wretch.”

Sleep sounds wonderful. Hongjoong’s eyelids droop heavily, exhaustion descending on him at once so powerfully he can feel the slow syrupy drag already pulling him under. “Fine, but not because you told me to.”

The second time he wakes up is arguably worse because not only is he clear headed enough to realize Yunho is carrying him and his throat is raw, he is finally aware of the riotous agony of his left leg and the fact his arms are bound by glowing metal.

He flexes his fingers. “Why can’t I move my arms?”

Yunho hums lightly. “Your wrists are bound in lyrium shackles.” His smile turns grim backlit by the phantom blue glow of surrounding deep mushroom clusters. “Very sorry.” 

“You are not,” Hongjoong accuses. “Release me this instant.” 

“No.”

Not being able to access his magic has Hongjoong’s teeth on edge. “ _Why?”_

Yunho sighs, and veers off to the right to set him down on a small outcropping of rock. He may be a brute and a terrible kidnapping victim, but he’s kind enough to be careful of the leg Hongjoong still can’t bring himself to look at. The same fear from that dark nightmare resurfaces: what if he looks down and it’s nothing more than a tangle of meat and bone? What if it’s been seared clean off at the knee? What if it’s covered in weeping pustules like the farmer boys back in the village and even a cure for stripweed sores wouldn’t be able to soothe it?

He shivers.

The templar backs away to lean defensively against an opposite wall, arms akimbo. There’s a red rag wrapped around the thickest part of his arm that makes Hongjoong wince.

“I will not be releasing you because not too long ago I watched as you magically tore apart one blood mage with only a wave of your hand and proceeded to rip another’s fingers off with your mouth, grinning like a feral animal the entire time.” Yunho’s glare intensifies. “You used my sword to run through the second while the main leader ran away sans three digits.”

He did that? When?

“That wasn’t...that wasn’t _me_.” His belly heaves. “And I do _not_ normally bite people’s fingers off.”

“I should hope not.” Yunho’s mouth purses tight. “Still.”

The only thing he remembers is the chanting from the stones and the blood in the air surging at his--

Hongjoong looks down at his hand. Where the inky black mark had appeared is now darker. The absolute center no longer resembles painted skin so much as it looks like a pinhole portal he could wedge his pinky into if he tried hard enough. Though where that portal led to is anyone’s guess. Perhaps the weird section of the Fade he’d dreamwalked into when he fell through the Veil. 

Deciding he doesn’t necessarily want a templar, a known enemy, taking interest in his new hand accessory, Hongjoong curls his hand into a fist and rests it against his lap. The last thing he needs is being deemed an abomination while shackled and helpless.

“I really and truly do not remember doing any of that.” He droops to get some weight off his poor leg. “If I’m so powerful, how come I didn’t explode _you_ when I had the chance, huh? We both know I make it no secret the Order is my personal enemy number one.”

Yunho is silent for a long time. “I’m a very good templar.”

“Vague and not an answer.”

Yunho snorts. “Then let me ask you this: why did you bite that man’s fingers off and let him run away so you could play sword master?”

“I _told_ you I don’t remember any of that!” 

“It was pretty gross,” the templar continues mercilessly. “I’m fairly sure you tried to eat them but some rings got in the way.”

Hongjoong gags. “Gods, stop, stop! I don’t want to think about--about--”

The templar unwinds just the slightest bit. “More importantly, that’s why the shackles are staying on.” 

Hongjoong lets the moment settle. “Where’s my staff?”

“You broke it,” Yunho replies. “Snapped it right in half before the explody magic show started.”

Great. Awesome. Hongjoong gnaws glumly on the interior of his cheek. No focus crystal. No staff. No access to his magic because he had to have some strange homicidal out of body experience.

“Do you think we’re being followed?”

“Doubtful.” Yunho takes a few hesitant steps forward and crouches low to prod at Hongjoong’s wounded limb. He hisses when a particular jab to the outside of his breeches sends a lightning strike of agony up his spine. “The main blood mage ran off while you were distracted and closed off the way we came with a bunch of boulders. I’m good, but I can’t dig out a cave in that deep.”

“So we’re lost.”

“There were only two exits. He took out one side so we’re taking the other, I assume it’s going to let out somewhere.”

Hongjoong squeezes his eyes shut against another stab of pain as the templar slowly rolls the bottom hem of his breeches up. “Or we’re going to wander deeper into a cave system that goes nowhere.”

“Always a risk with any cave,” Yunho comments mildly. “Not sure if it matters, but have you noticed your hair has grown?”

Head against the wall to avoid looking at his leg, Hongjoong blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Your hair. It’s longer than it was before.”

Sure enough, the ends of his hair have lengthened to the point he can see the black ends when he cranes his neck to the side. Huh.

“Weird.”

“This whole adventure has been weird.” 

Yunho does something cruel and awful to his leg and Hongjoong gasps raggedly against the stone. “I don't know if I should feel comforted by that or not.”

The templar only shrugs. “Best not to think about it right now while we're still covered in gore in the middle of a rank cave.”

“Maybe.” He swallows another groan of pain as Yunho finally unwraps the tattered remains of his breeches from the worst of the wound in his leg. It feels worse than it looks, but there is a gash the length of his forearm down the center deep enough he feels like it’s exposing bone. “Shit, that's really starting to hurt.”

“It's a good sign you still feel it.” Yunho's lips thin. “When the heat and numbness sets in that's when you need to worry about losing the leg. Are you any good at poultices or healing magic?”

“Poultices, no. Not that I even have the herbs on me to make one to begin with.” They don’t have _anything_ now. The bedrolls or the packs of meat or the water skein all lost to the chaos. 

“And magic?”

Hongjoong shakes his head. “I was apparently made for destruction. The best I could do is heal a scrape or burn the dead skin off after the leg is lost.”

A grim reality he’s battled with before, the inability to work even the most mediocre of healing magic has been a sore spot dating back to his time in the Circle. The governess in charge of his station took particular glee in running him dry forcing him to cast the same minor healing spell over and over again until he got dizzy and could only produce the faintest of sparks. 

Yunho sighs, dragging his hands down his face in frustration. “Well let's hope it doesn't come to that. We just need to get out of this cave and then it should be easy to--”

“Let's change the subject,” Hongjoong interrupts because he does not want to think about the possibility they won’t be getting out of here. “Were you ever going to admit to being nobility?”

The templar freezes almost comically while trying to make a tourniquet. “Where’d that come from?”

“The fact that you think you can join the Chevaliers without proof of birth,” Hongjoong answers, dry. “And the fact the ring around your neck has been reflecting at me since you came over here. What crest is that?”

“Nothing. It belongs to no one.” Yunho hastily shoves the ring carefully knotted on a leather cord back into his shirt. “I stole it off a superior officer.”

“You don't seem the type for thievery.”

“And you don't seem the type to eat fingers, yet here we are.”

Hongjoong inclines his head. “Fair.”

He keeps his mouth shut while Yunho finishes tying off his ruined breeches at the knee and then tears what he can of the scraps to wrap around the worst of the gash. It won’t prevent infection if they can’t get it healed in time, but it will at least keep it somewhat clear of the elements while they work to find a way out. Hongjoong hesitates before reaching out again for Yunho to lift him up and settles into the cradle of his arms with guilt burning in his throat. 

“I still don't trust you.”

“Nor I you.” Yunho jostles him a bit, jaunty hitch in his step. “Glad we're in agreement, but for now we're stuck together and, for the moment at least, we're safe.” 

The cave is straightforward here too. Very few offshoots in the limestone go further than a few feet so they stick to the main path lest they get turned around.

Yunho clears his throat. “Were you ever going to tell me you're half elf?”

If it weren’t for the heavy shackles around his wrists, Hongjoong probably would have slapped him. “How did you find out?”

“The blood mages called you half-breed while I was in captivity and you're too tall to have dwarf in you.” Yunho gently rests him on a large outcropping of rock while he catches his breath. Holding a grown man while one arm is still recovering from a recent stab wound can’t be easy or comfortable. “Kept repeating the same thing of the half-breed mage smells of ripe destiny and they wanted to recruit you to the cause. Maybe they just wanted a little nibble of your destiny-filled elbows.”

Hongjoong considers this. Maybe it had something to do with the weird mark on his hand. “Never good when a cannibal cult smells destiny on you.”

Yunho grins at him lopsided. “I'm not sure they could smell anything past the end of their noses with how covered in pustules and entrails as they were. Might have just gotten confused with the stench of bad liver.”

The steady background noise of dripping water from the limestone echoes for a long moment before Yunho finally breaks. “I'm a bastard.”

“Well, I knew that much just by virtue of you being a templar, but go on.”

'”No, I mean, my father was-- _is_ a noble who works closely with the throne of Orlais. He had his heir and a spare and then had me with one of the scullery maids, only I was sent to the chantry and my mother was paid handsomely not to mention my existence.” Yunho rubs a hand over the spot where the ring he’d stowed away rests. “He’s a general in the army, so I thought, maybe, if I become a Chevalier and prove my worth then he would have to accept me into his house and finally raise my mother from indentured servitude.”

“Sounds a lot like King Alistair’s backstory,” Hongjoong says suspiciously.

“I suspect it sounds like many backstories,” Yunho counters. “Nobles don’t much care about the results of the dalliances so long as they go away.”

“Be that as it may, I think you’re naive to believe he’d accept you,” Hongjoong tells him. “But it's a fine a reason as any to go throw yourself into the middle of war. I'm not going to judge you for it.”

“But you'll judge me for my place in the Chantry?”

“Oh. Yes. All day long, in fact.”

Yunho laughs though it’s more a light rush of air through his nose than anything.

He swallows. “Hongjoong.”

“What?”

“My name.” Hongjoong’s mouth trembles as he says it because names have power, and by now Yunho has got enough of his blood soaked into his rough cotton undershirt that he could fill an entire storeroom of phylacteries. “In case you still wanted to know.”

“Hongjoong.” Yunho says it like he's learning the shape of it and grins. “A mage who bites fingers and despises cabbage.”

“And you're Yunho, the templar on a misguided quest for fatherly acceptance.”

Yunho snorts good naturedly. “What a pair we make.”

“Indeed.”

Hongjoong throws a handful of dust in the air to watch it float down until it catches on a breeze. 

A way out.

**Author's Note:**

> ~ <3 Ash


End file.
